


Syncopation

by Shadowling



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Canon Universe, F/F, Gen, self-harm as a grounding technique
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-02
Updated: 2016-06-07
Packaged: 2018-07-11 17:11:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7061965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadowling/pseuds/Shadowling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gon has finally come home after being away for over a year, but any relief from his return is quickly overshadowed by the sudden distance between him and Mito that leaves her more than irritated. As tensions rise in the Freeces' house, Palm comes to visit Gon and ends up striking up a friendship with Mito, but Palm has her own issues to work through thanks to her new status as an Ant. Feelings start to develop between them, but it's inevitable one of them won't be able to bear these new struggles. The question is if it will be enough to come between them.</p><p>(For the Hunter x Hunter Big Bang 2016)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a total of seven chapters. I'll be uploading a chapter each day this week. I hope you all enjoy!

“Pass the ham.”

“Eat your carrots first, Gon.”

“But I--”

“But nothing.” _It’s not my fault you’re living off greens in the forest._

“Okay, Aunt Mito.”

“Then try to finish that new packet from school.”

“Okay.”

...

“This is good, Mito.”

“Thank you, Gran.”

…

“I’m going to bed. You can just leave your plate in the sink when you’re done, Gon. I’ll do it in the morning.”

“Mito, are you--?”

“I’m fine, Gran. Thanks. Love you.”

“Love you too, honey.”

“Good night, Gon...love you.”

“...Love you, too.”

~*~

It's a breezeless day. The laundry hangs limply on the line, not even bothering to sway weakly against each other, and the grass droops quietly below in an act of lazy solidarity. At this time of day with the sun at its most merciless, even the animals are silent, motionless in the shade. Only the ocean moving softly against the rocks makes a sound as though to rock the whole island to sleep.

The angry slam of a door acts as an alarm, sudden and unwelcome. The grass falls violently underfoot as Mito stomps to the clothes line, and the sharp snap of the laundry being folded and thrown into a fraying basket destroys most of the lingering calm from the area. Only the ocean remains steady, but its tranquility eludes her.

Ten minutes until his guest is due, and Gon isn’t there. She told him--she _told_ him the last two weeks when she saw him to please actually home for this once, but he's still off in the forest! Doing who knows what! Ignoring his school work! Ugh, just like his father!

Mito shoves another towel in the basket, not even bothering to fold it. Honestly, that boy is lucky she doesn't go in there and drag him out. She knows that forest like the back of her hand and Gon even more! She should go in there and drag him out. She _would_ , but...

“Hello?”

Mito jumps, the laundry line shaking as she roughly yanks one of Gon’s shorts off. She waves off the hasty apology, taking a moment to fold the shorts before she turns to her guest, offering a quick smile.

“Hello,” Mito says, taking in the woman.

She’s extremely overdressed for the weather. Her arms are covered with long gloves, and she’s wearing high boots that cover her shins. Her dark, tangled hair hangs around her like a heavy cloud, but she looks at home in it. A wide hat that’s pulled low on her head offers her some shade. It can't be enough in this heat, but she’s not even sweating.

Mito shakes the feeling away and focuses on the task at hand. This is definitely nowhere near the strangest guest Gon has had. She can handle this.

“I have some tea inside. Make yourself at home.” Mito returns to the laundry, doubling her speed. “Just give me a few minutes.”

Mito fully expects for the woman to leave, searching Gon out in the forest like the guy last month, but she lingers. “Do you…need help?”

Mito shrugs her off, surprised. “It's no problem, Miss…?”

The woman flushes under the respect. “No, no. Oh, no. No, no, no. No.” She waves her hand quickly in denial and looks away. “Just Palm, Ms. Freeces.”

Mito makes a face at the towels. It suddenly dawns on her she's approaching thirty. “Just Mito is fine.”

Palm nods, the color leaving her face. She looks around the area instead of letting herself inside, so Mito watches her between folding. With the blush gone, Mito can finally see just how pale and skinny Palm is, the bluish tint of her skin reminding her of a drowned sailor. However, Palm's gaze is steady as she casts her eyes around, and the certainty that she holds herself with reminds Mito of Ging, as if a foxbear could come charging out of the forest and there was no doubt she wouldn't subdue it.

 _Hunters_ , Mito thinks, fanning out one of her dresses with a sharp snap.

(She tries not to notice the faint stress lines around Palm’s eyes that match her own, an odd bit of humanity on the otherwise inhuman woman.)

As if sensing her granddaughter’s agitation, Granny appears in the doorway. She beckons Palm inside with a pleasant smile and commanding hand. After some hesitation, Mito is left alone.

She takes a moment, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand, and looks into the trees. She watches even as she works, the leaves sagging in the heat, the green of it bleeding into each other, unmoving. It still hasn’t moved when she finishes.

Mito sighs, heaving the basket up. She balances it against her hip and takes one more lingering look into the forest.

 _Hunters_.

The sound of Granny’s hearty chuckle improves her mood a bit as she walks inside. The slightly off-hinged chuckle that answers sours it a bit, but it's better than the booming laugh of the guy that smelled like smoke last month.

Mito heads upstairs rather than interrupt. Granny hasn't laughed much since Shell passed away, and she's not at all eager to cut even the smallest chuckle short.

It takes less time than she’d like to put away all the clothes, so she changes all the sheets as well, even the ones in the guest room. She dusts invisible dust off the sparse knickknacks in the hall, running gentle cloth over her mother’s captain hat and Granny’s wedding photo and a not-so-gentle cloth over a picture of her and Gon and the newly added picture of Ging beside it. She looks out the window one last time and heads downstairs to start dinner.

She lingers before the entrance at the sound of voices. Their conversation has drifted towards the past, Gran recounting the time her and her husband repaired the roof after a tree crashed through it.

Mito peeks inside. Palm is listening with rapt interest, or she’s very good at faking it. Either way, Mito appreciates it. It's not often Gran has a new victim, and she only tells her adventure stories after she's told the mundane ones, as if she thinks the former are lackluster. Mito supposes when you spend your early years seeped in excitement the normal becomes extraordinary.

“What was your husband like?” Palm asks, and Mito knows she won’t be barging into the kitchen any time soon.

“Oh, that old man,” Gran says, voice growing softer. Mito can picture the way the wrinkles deepen on Gran’s face when she reminisces, as if all the years come back at once to age her again, and yet Gran never looks younger than she does when talking about Gramps.

“He was nothing to write home about in looks beyond his crazy hair. He’s where Mette--that’s Mito’s father--got his red hair and his stubbornness, not to mention his temper.” Gran laughs. “Although I wasn’t much better myself. He was impulsive and always forgot to put the toilet seat down, but he was sweet in the strangest ways, probably to get around his bashfulness when it came to me. He was nosy as hell, too.” Gran raises her voice. “Just like my granddaughter!”

Mito blushes, caught red-handed, but she moves confidently into the kitchen once she gathers herself, purposefully grabbing pots and ingredients.

“I was just waiting to start dinner.” She squares her shoulders defensively. “I didn’t want to interrupt.”

Gran laughs as she eases herself out of her chair. “I forgot to mention! Mito inherited a lot from my husband as well. Sometimes it’s like he’s still here.” Her eyes twinkle with mischief. “Especially when I hear her off-pitch humming.”

“Grandma!”

Gran just laughs and excuses herself, the dull thunk of her cane gone in a matter of seconds.

A sense of awkwardness creeps over Mito once Gran leaves. She’s aware of every shift Palm makes in the silence, anticipating the quiet to be filled with a story she thinks will impress Mito or for her to up and leave, but she just...sits there. Mito swears she feels eyes on her as she works, but every glance back shows Palm looking somewhere else.

Mito sighs and rolls up her sleeves. Whatever. She has a dinner to make.

The sound of clinking glass on metal startles Mito. She turns to see Palm at the sink, mug empty and washed.

“Do you want help?” Palm asks, already standing. She's cutting the onion before Mito can even take a breath to deny her, and the resulting insult that springs to her tongue has to be forcibly swallowed.

“Thank you,” she bites out.

Despite her tension, they move well together in the kitchen. For all her eagerness Palm seems to know what line not to cross, slicing any fruit or vegetables she can reach and leaving Mito the meat and seasoning. They never bump as they move around. The closest they get to touching is when they stand side-by-side minding to their own task. It would be okay if not for the reverent way Palm holds the knives, staring at them as they glint in the light.

 _Maybe she_ is _just as strange as the others…._

Finally everything is comfortably cooking away, leaving little excuse not to talk. Palms seems content enough to trace a doting finger along the blade’s edge, but Mito can’t relax.

“How do you know Gon, Palm?”

Palm doesn’t look up from the blade, but her finger stills. “He and Killua stayed at my house for a time. Gon was polite! Oh, so nice!” she gushed, red springing to her cheeks. “But Killua was a bit…” Her finger begins to move again. “...rude.”

“Really?” Mito’s eyes widen. “He was nothing but civil when he was here!”

Palm shrugs. “Stress can bring out the worst in people,” she coos, shallowly slicing at her finger. “Jealousy too, but I think he also didn't like me.”

The conversation lulls as Mito checks on the meat and is slow to come back.

“Have you heard from him?”

“...Who?” Palm asks, now occupied braiding a strand of hair. It only serves to make her tangled locks look more chaotic even if it is a very skillful braid.

Mito casts a glance around, voice low. “Killua.”

Palm shrugs. “Sometimes. He texts me questions about towns and cities and such.”

“Oh.” Mito fiddles with her nails, thinks of the number she gave Killua last year and the silent phone in the hall. Maybe a cellphone is a good idea. She knows better than anyone some things are harder to say out loud.

_But with the groceries and Gran’s medication and Gon growing like a weed...not to mention him coming home in the clothes that do fit him practically in shreds. I don't have the money._

Mito doesn't ask any more questions, and Palm doesn't offer any of her own. She's content to hum and braid and play with her knife until dinner is served, only moving to help set the table.

Gran supplies most of the conversation, Palm answering any questions she asks, but Mito barely manages noises of acknowledgement. There’s a gaping hole in the table only made more obvious with the addition of a guest. She should be used to it by now. He was gone for over a year, but there’s too much food left at the end of dinner to show for the little bead of hope that still persists after two months.

“I think it’s time I sleep,” Gran says gently.

Mito leaves the dishes, drying her hands on her skirt to help Gran up, but Palm beats her to it.

“I got her.” And with that, she lifts Gran in one smooth motion and is gone in a sweep of hair, leaving Mito to her empty kitchen.

She finishes the dishes and wraps the food in a daze, hands shaking slightly each time she looks out the dark window. Will he spend the night in the forest again like the last few days? Or sneak into his window with barely a word? She had long since given up waiting for him at the front door, just as he had long given up returning before dark.

Mito’s aware Palm has returned even as she moves towards the liquor cabinet.

“There’s a guest room upstairs,” Mito says, flinging her cabinet open. “It’s the first door on your right.” The bottles clink together as Mito grabs her choice for the night, a particularly nasty beer that will burn all the way down her throat. She thinks of Gon still not back, Gran’s dose being raised so she can sleep, the silence of the night and grabs a second glass.

“Unless you’d like a drink, Palm?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The beautiful illustration in this chapter was done by overflowne! Check it out here->  
> (http://overflowne.tumblr.com/post/145592449580/my-art-for-wordhunterings-fic-syncopation)


	2. Chapter 2

On the morning of the third day since Palm's arrival, she bids farewell to Mito and Gran, gloves firmly in place, boots tight against her legs, and hat held securely with strategically placed pins. She only sees Gon as she's heading out, the boy covered in mud and dirt but otherwise the same as she remembers when he had first appeared to her.

Palm lets out a relieved sigh.

“Palm? Oh, I forgot you were coming!” He flails, trying to wipe the mess of his clothes and face and only rubbing it deeper into the fabric. She thinks of the laundry Mito just finished and frowns slightly.

“I'm so sorry! I lost track of time,” Gon rubs the back of his head sheepishly. “I’m glad you’re doing okay!”

In the distance, the boat’s horn is loud with warning. Gon waves her on, Palm unable to get a single word in, but she smiles. “I’m glad you’re okay, too.”

He smiles in return, but the brightness dimmed as though a cloud covering the sun, and she has to grab her wrist in a bone-breaking grip to contain herself as he runs off.

Of course it's not that simple.

~*~

Knov visits with Shoot a few weeks later. Palm pulls all the stops more for herself than them, cooking a meal for eight rather than three. At the very least cooking still gives her the same rush of pleasure, and her favorite knife finally begins to feel friendly in her hand as she expertly chops the carrots and then savagely slices it into bits.

It's impossible not to notice how different Shoot and Knov are during the meal, more so Knov than Shoot. Shoot moves with a slowness weighed down by wounds, and his skin more scarred than usual, but he still waits for Knov and Palm to take what they want before he does. He still asks after the ingredients in all of Palm's of dishes and if she caught up with that drama they both enjoy. He still seems the same.

Knov’s hands tremble from an invisible force. The dull gray of his hat matches the bags under his eyes that flitter around the room. An occasional stutter hangs on his long, scholarly words, but none of these bother Palm much. Rather it's the slope of his shoulders that used to be a straight line, the shattered remains of the confidence Palm loved so much that makes her feel the permanence of all these changes.

“Have you heard from Killua lately?” Shoot asks.

Palm shrugs and gets up to find her phone, sending Shoot into her kitchen to look for the charger. She finds it relatively easy in her room underneath one of her half-modified dress. It's tangled in thick thread that Palm yanks off with her hands, the snapping of the taut lines satisfying against her fingertips.

She flips it open. Predictably, it's dead.

Shoot is still looking when she returns, closing drawers with enough force to hear the search clearly not going well.

“T-t-try under the toaster,” Knov calls.

“Under the--?! Found it.”

Palm expects to feel the rush of heat from Knov knowing her so intimately, but it doesn’t come. She even sits down closer to him than usual, waits for her skin to prickle with proximity, but it's a relief to turn her attention to plugging in her phone and stop probing herself so deeply.

It takes a few minutes for her phone work, but it begins buzzing steadily in her hand as the messages pour in. Most are from Knuckle and probably dog pictures. Two are from Killua. She opens it and finds a blurry picture of Killua watching TV with a finger taking up the lower left corner with the caption: _Hi!! This is Alluka!!_

Palm stares at it. Killua looks happy, much happier than the last time she saw him, but he looks troubled. It reminds her of the palace, of dawning realization and the flash of battle of fury of detachment of instincts of rebirth--

The other message is from a week later: _sorry about my sister. how do yuo get gum out of long hair_

She types out a quick answer and turns the phone over to Shoot and Knov. They nod after a short time, satisfied, and hand it back.

“Sorry about Knuckle. I tell him he doesn't have to take a picture of every dog he finds, but since he's started finding homes for them it's impossible to stop him.” Shoot gives a long-burdened sigh, as if he doesn't save every dog picture Knuckle sends him. “How’s Gon?”

“Okay.” At least he seemed okay in the two minutes Palm talked to him all weekend. “Tired.”

They all sit in silence for a moment after that, a wordless comradery of veterans, before conversation starts up again, an air of finality about it. Shoot will be heading to meet up with Knuckle and Morel for some training. Knov is taking some time away from everything. Palm will...Palm is…

“I was thinking of calling Biscuit since she is very strong, and I’m not quite sure about the, uh, differences in my body…but I think she’ll be able to help.”

“I-I-It’s late,” Knov says, not looking at Palm. “We should g-go.”

She busies herself with packing up leftovers while they get ready, not looking at Knov either. Her farewell is short and curt, already looking forward to yanking these dumb gloves and hat off, but Knov lingers. Shoot takes the hint and leaves, looking anxiously over his shoulder a few times to make sure that’s what he’s supposed to do.

“I’m s-sorry I can’t train y-you anymore,” Knov says, but Palm waves him off.

“Go relax,” she says gently, pushing the leftovers into his hands. “It’s okay.” She hesitates, then leans forward to kiss him on the cheek, her heartbeat even in her chest. So that’s it then. “Thank you.”

Knov open his mouth as if to say something, but thinks better of it. He adjust his glasses, and the streetlights reflect off it in such a way the bags under his eyes are unseeable. The night blends into his hat, and for a moment he is the man Palm first met after her Hunter Exam, extending his hand to her.

“Goodnight, Palm.”

“Goodnight,” she says, and he’s gone.

Palm lingers outside. She can hear the river flowing frantically under the bridge, the quiet chirping of summer insects, the TV of the house next to her. She watches people cross the road avoid passing her house and others purposely avert his eyes from her.

Yeah, the town is the same as always. So far from the King’s domain, the NGL incident was nothing but a terrible news story to be talked about by adults, to hollowly exclaim surprise and rage and disgust at how such cruelty could exist before returning to their lives. The parents still avoid Palm, the children still gawk at her, the baker and her husband still offer her a smile and a wave every time she passes the store. The buildings still stand, the bridge still has that one loose stone, and the water still has that subtle smell of fish. Her living room is still trashed with cut-up Gon dolls, her front door is still that off-white color she hates, and her kitchen is clean as always. She still likes to cook, to make clothes, to dismember dolls...

But her crystal ball is now imbedded in her skull, the merman an inseparable part of her. Her nails can no longer tear at the soft flesh of her arm blocked by the scales, and the eyes that reflect in her knives aren't hers. She is no longer entirely Palm Siberia.

But the town has not changed.

~*~

Palm wakes up that night with her body nearly trembling with energy and stomach churning. The bed whines as she shoves herself out of it, and she’s packing and leaving without questioning it, ever the creature of impulse. But she has no idea where her body wants to go. Or rather the ant. She just knows she needs to be doing something, that she can’t stay in one place, that she has to travel until the ant is satisfied.

And then the cycle will repeat.

(Or will it? She was traveling almost every three days, blacking out at four if she didn’t listen to the impulse. It’s been over two weeks since the last time. Is she winning out over the Ant?)

She flashes her hunter’s licence as she boards a blimp to another continent and spends the whole trip wanting to claw her skin off and has to settle for ripping bits of her hair out while the passengers around her look away. She's glad there are no good samaritans tonight that try and stop her.

The next week is a blur of places with quick naps when the ant manages to calm down enough. She eats little and talks even less, languages flying over her head, unimportant.

Most of her teachers had always been big on self-restraint, and as she spends another thousand on a blimp Palm laughs, loud and entertained at the thought. She could be, if she wanted. Sometimes she wants to, but other times why would she want to? Knov hadn't cared. Most hunters didn't, and those that did avoided her.

Today, however, she wants to behave. Energy isn't tearing its way through her system. She's done enough for the ant, and now she wants to be calm calm so calm that she could slip off into a dream at a moment's notice.

She punches an abandoned wall to get the rest of it out of her system and heads to the harbor.

By noon she finds a ship. By one she's gone, watching the shore slip and police lights fade, fade while the ship rocks softly back and forth and back and forth….

She manages to make it to her room before falling asleep to the comforting motion.

It had lasted seven days. Almost a new record.

~*~

Palm's surprised to see Whale Island ten hours later but not disappointed. It's not the first time she's taken a surprise trip instead of going home, but it's always been unfamiliar places. Then again, what place is calmer than Whale Island?

It’s early in the morning when the ship docks, the sky just beginning to show signs of the sun’s rising. The grass is wet with dew and shines in the faint light,and the island is peacefully quiet as she makes her way to the Freeces’ house. Occasionally she'll hear the grass rustle as an animal darts away, but the only people awake at this hour are insomniacs or masochists.

 _Or Gon_ , she thinks, watching the boy disappear into the forest. There's an odd cadence to his gait that betrays how hard he's trying to appear normal, and Palm takes a step to follow until she sees a flash of red in the Freeces’ window.

She's beginning to wonder if the whole family needs some of Gran’s sleeping pills.

Palm forgets about her state of dress right up until she knocks on the door, and there’s not much she can do beyond brush some of the twigs out of her hair before Mito opens the door, her face quickly morphing from annoyed confusion to surprise.

“What happened to you?” Mito asks, not unkindly.

Palm brushes her wild hair out of her face, the oil in it so thick it leaves residue on her cheek. She hasn't changed her dress or showered in days, and her gloves are fraying at the ends.

“I went on a trip. I didn't know the ship would come here but this island is very nice. It reminds me of Nex except without all the screaming monkeys. This place is a lot better though. Very peaceful. Very green. The trees are--”

“Just go take a shower,” Mito says, holding the bridge of her nose. “I’ll get the guest room setup.”

“Thank you.”

Her legs still feel heavy with exhaustion as she works her way up the stairs, Mito following behind. Nen is beyond her at this point, and if it wasn’t for Mito herding her towards the bathroom, she would’ve just went to the guestroom to collapse. As it is, she’ll probably fall asleep in the tub.

“Here’s a towel, a rag…” Mito tosses them to Palm. Soap and shampoo are in there…need anything else?”

Palm glances around. There’s something...what is it again? “I...don’t think so.”

Mito nods. “Okay. I’ll set up the room for you and then I’m going to bed.” And she’s gone before Palm can protest, way too energetic to be heading to bed. Palm can tell Mito’ll be awake for another hour at least.

Carefully, Palm sits down on the edge of the tub to gather herself. The plastic is unyielding underneath her, and she almost pitches backward despite her care. Her bag feels like a ton of bricks as she lifts it. The loud thud it makes when she sets it beside her doesn’t exactly reassure her that it doesn’t actually hold more than a few bricks.

What it does have is several train tickets, a half-eaten sandwich, a bag of buttons, her wallet, her actual wallet, several knives, a broken watch, and the clock from her kitchen counter. It does not have bricks or clothes. Great.

Standing up again makes her knees scream. She’s tired, so tired, and she has to lean her hands against the hallway wall outside to catch her breath. She leans a little bit harder than she probably should, considering she feels the plaster crack under her fingers, but the quick shift of a picture frame an inch to the right covers the seeable damage.

There’s only one other light on in the hallway, horribly bright as it shines through the doorway, and Palm quickly staggers her way over. Inside is Mito, pulling sheets out of the bottom drawer as she mutters to herself.

“--I swear are all hunters permanently twelve?”

“I'm almost twenty-three.”

Mito jumps. She spins around, expression stubborn. Even though she’s kneeling, Mito somehow manages to be intimidating, and Palm feels her heart beat faster at the thought of facing down this woman at her full height. “Do you need something?”

“Some clothes, please?”

“You didn’t pack any?” Mito raises one critical eyebrow.

“Apparently not.”

“‘Apparently’? Ugh...” She sets aside the sheets and opens the drawer above it, pulling out a long nightgown and plaid PJ pants and tossing it haphazardly to Palm, who has to walk forward to grab the gown after it gracefully flies barely a foot. “Underwear?”

Palm almost chokes on her own spit. “W-what?”

Again with the critical eyebrow. “Do you need some underwear, too?”

Well that’s sure a loaded question.

“I, uh...I have some in my bag.”

“But not clothes.”

“I left in a hurry.”

Mito stands and moves closer, throwing a critical eye over her body. Palm hunches in on herself and tries to draw attention away from the bigger stains on her dress, flushed with embarrassment. “Is someone coming after you?”

“What?” Palm recoils. “No.”

“You aren’t hurt?”

“No?”

Looking at Whale Island from a distance, Palm had been able to get a feeling for how someone like Gon could exist. Looking at Mito, Palm can understand how Gon came to be Gon. His stubbornness had to of been honed facing down Mito’s stern look, and his honestly must have been strengthened from living with her all-seeing stare. Palm can’t hold her gaze for more than a minute.

“Look,” Mito sighs, “first aid is under the sink in the bathroom. As long as this house and no one in it--” Mito pulls a face like she’s tasted something sour, “or out of it is hurt, stay here however long you like.”

Palm moves out of the way to let Mito pass, but she pauses, lingering in the hallway, half enshrouded by the darkness. Then she places a hand on Palm’s bare shoulder and leaves, disappearing into the house.

Stunned, Palm touches the spot, tracing over where skin had met skin.

Maybe kindness, too, Gon learned from Mito.


	3. Chapter 3

“Pass the meatloaf.”

“Eat your peas first.”

“‘kay.”

“Then try to finish that new packet from school.”

“‘kay.”

…

“Here, Gon. I don’t think I can finish my mine.”

“Thanks, Gran!”

“After you eat your peas.”

“Gran~!  
…

“...Hey, Aunt Mito?”

“Yes, Gon?”

“Could you, uh, help me? With the packet? It’s math.”

“Of course.”

“Thanks.”

~*~

At nine Mito makes a large breakfast of pancakes, humming an old sailor’s tune as she hunts for the chocolate chips. She kisses Gran goodmorning and is actually happy to listen to her tell her news about her friends. Molly got married. Bug finally got their plant to grow. Gwet left on another vacation.

At ten they eat, the pancakes no longer hot but neither of them wanting to wait any longer. Gran’s chatter trails off, every possible subject exhausted as they eat. A large stack is set aside and wrapped to stay warm.

At eleven Mito is preoccupying herself with everything and anything. Gran keeps beckoning her to sit down, to drink the tea she made, to listen to the radio. Mito doesn’t sit.

At noon she shoves open the door to Gon’s room, and the empty bed irritates her. The room is relatively clean but she starts tidying anyway. She hangs up clothes and dusts the desk, she makes his bed and wipes his fingerprints off his window, she slams the door behind her and goes to lay down in her bed.

So what if it was the first time since he came home five months ago he stayed more than three days? She shouldn’t have expected different. What had he said that night before he left? “Being a Hunter is so important that family comes second”? She’s coming second to...to whatever was in that forest!

“Hunters,” she sneers, burying her face in her pillow.

...Gon had stayed a week this time. She was a fool to think it would last.

~*~

  
Palm is there the next morning, breakfast ready and chatting with Gran. She’s in a much better shape than Mito’s used to when she turns up at their house, hair clean and the bags under her eyes only moderately deep instead of endlessly deep. No knives in plain sight either, which is always a good sign.

(When did she began to expect Palm in the morning more than her own son?)

Mito perches on the counter, trying to avoid detection, but Palm catches her eye. She stiffens, unable to put on a polite smile this early in the morning let alone offer a suitable greeting, but Palm only hands her a plate of eggs and bacon without interrupting her conversation with Gran.

She eats slowly, still awkward despite how many meals Palm’s made for them. Palm is supposed to be a guest, no matter how familiar her presence. Mito is the one that does these things, and having a moment of relaxation when she doesn’t expect it leaves her feeling useless.

Throwing half of her eggs out, Mito begins brewing a cup of coffee. Gran’s cup is carefully extracted from its place under the sink, Palm’s from the top shelf, and Mito grabs whatever one is within reach for herself, placing them on the counter. Within minutes they are full.

Mito slides Palm hers and brings Gran’s out into the family room per her request, placing it on the table next to her chair. She flips the radio on and cranks it loud enough to hear in the kitchen while Gran sets herself comfortably in her chair. Her whole body relaxes, and Mito bends down to kiss her on the forehead, resting her cane against the wall for when it’s needed.

Palm already has most of the sugar bowl in her coffee when Mito sits down across from her at the kitchen table.

“Too bad you weren’t here earlier,” Mito says. “You would’ve caught Gon.”

Palm shrugs, adds another scoop.

“Have you even seen Gon once while you were here?”

A nod. Three more scoops and a loud slurp.

“...Have you talked to him.”

“Once.” Five more scoops. “Maybe I'm here to see you and Gran.”

Mito nearly chokes.

“Does Gon text you?” she says quickly. “Ever?”

Palm shakes her head, takes another three scoops of sugar for her coffee, spoon scraping harshly against the bottom. “No. Killua doesn’t much either until he needs something. Brat.”

Mito laughs. “He’s thirteen!” She grabs the other sugar cup from the counter and passes it over. “I’d expect some selfishness. For them to forget to drop a letter or two. Just not...ignoring you outright.”

She takes a long sip of her coffee. Palm finally finishes adding a fourth of Mito’s sugar to her drink and gulps half of it down.

“Why the new sugar cups?” Palm asks.

Taking another sip, Mito shrugs. She feels embarrassed suddenly as if called out on a deed she had no intention of ever being noticed, much less acknowledged. “Well you take a lot of sugar,” she says defensively, looking into her cup. “I figured I’d just keep it around since you show up so much.”

“Oh…” A small, bewildered smile, nearly undetectable, flashes on Palm’s face before she hides it behind her cup. She still can’t hide how pleased she is. With the wide hat and dress she reminds Mito of a painting of a cultured city girl, but a high piece of art would never have the wild hair, the stress lines, the bags under her eyes. Somehow it makes the picture even better. “Thank you.”

Mito takes another sip, throat suddenly dry. “No problem.”

The radio flows lazily between them. It tells of weather changes, of current events that don't impact the quiet island, of cities Mito wants to see and of people she has never thought twice. Commercials for products she has never bought drift on the coattails of bad news, the jingle so ingrained in her mind she could sing along easily.

The soft sound of Palm’s humming catches her unaware. It matches perfectly, note for note. It had never occurred to her that the commercial existed outside this island.

How many other people know this song? How many radio stations air it? Does it have a TV version? The questions flow down the well-trodden path of Mito’s mind, familiar curiosity that is ready to be forgotten with the next minute.

How many times has Palm heard these commercials? Once? A lot? Never? Does she know the people they talk about on the news? How many other commercials, how many other officials’ names has she heard? Do they matter to her?

Mito is staring. Palm is muttering to herself about songs, uncaring of her gaze. Is she used to it? Does she get them often? Does she even notice? Why does she appear every two weeks, tired and dirty and resigned? What does she do when she’s not here?

Mito opens her mouth. Closes it. Takes a long sip of her coffee. Would Palm answer a question? Would she brush Mito off like Gon?

“...Palm?”

It takes a minute for Palm to focus on her. Her attention is unnerving, unwavering gaze only intensified by the unnatural blue of her eyes. It makes Mito think of an animal unsure whether the thing in front of it is prey or friend.

“Does...Have you…” Mito sighs harshly. What question won’t be brushed off? “...Do you have any stories? From where you lived?”

Palm leans forward on the table. Her whole body turns to face Mtio, and an impish, frightening grin spreads across her face. “Oh do I.”


	4. Chapter 4

After six months, Palm is used to drinking with Mito. She's used to the rage it brings out, the fire flaring in Mito’s eyes, the furious tirades about Ging. She used to the rants that end with Mito stewing in silence before the inevitable “And another thing!” as she begins again, has even come to regard them as endearing. She's used to falling asleep at the table, to jerking awake hours later with a horrible taste in her mouth, blinking away the fog of sleep just long enough to carry Mito upstairs to her room and collapse in the guest room before submitting to sweet oblivion again.

Yes, it’s all very comfortable, a kind of calming predictability she doesn't remember ever ever possessing. No matter what is going on at the Freeces’ house (which, admittedly, isn’t much) time is always set aside for this nice, predictable routine.

What Palm isn't used to are the sudden tears, the uncontrolled syllables that slip clumsily from her lips as her rant suddenly slips off the rails, Gon’s name tumbling softly into the air.

“Stup’d...both of ‘'em…,” Mito whispers. The glass in her hand clanks roughly on the table top, adding more dings to the already rough surface, and yet her expression remains stony. “They think I don’ notice, but I do...and they don’ say nothin’...like father like son...”

Palm watches her from across the table, watches the twitching nerves on her face as she clenches her jaw, watches her grip slowly tighten. and feels the odd, familiar feeling of rage.

She was lied to. This is not Mito, is it? Punishment. Maybe she can make her write, just like her son when _he hurt her too no, no, no, NO_ Palm won’t bully her into anything but Palm _needs_ to do something something to focus on Mito has a strict rule about drinking with knives nearby and her scales cover her arms but she needs something--

Palm’s pointed nails bite deep into the flesh above the scales on her legs, the purple polish covered by red as skin easily breaks. Her black, fingerless gloves colorlessly absorb the blood.

“He...he won’ tell me,” Mito sniffs. Palm releases a shaky exhale of air. “Won’ tell me anythin’. He’s always been like tha’...like Ging but…” She runs a hand through her uncharacteristically messy hair. It does little good, half of it plastering to her forehead and the other half sticking straight up in the air. Palm clenches her hand tighter, the sweet pain and warmth anchoring her to shifting reality.

“ _I’m his mother!_ ” She brings the glass in her hand down to punctuate the statement, a thick fracture running up the side as it strikes the table.

Palm blankly watches the thick stream of blood flow from Mito’s hand. How did the blood dripping down her leg stain Mito’s sleeve? She checks her leg. The blood is still there.

Mito flinches. Palm’s head snaps up in time to watch her pull a long shard of glass out of her hand.

Oh.

She grabs Mito’s wrist firmly and pulls her hand under the dim kitchen light. Firmly she turns Mito’s palm up, all her attention shifting to the glass shards as they glitter faintly under the bulb, bloody stars.

Palm breaths deeply. First aid she can do. First aid she can focus on.

She carefully picks out the larger pieces and sets them on the table with a light clink, hoping Mito can't see the blood covering her polish in the din or is at least too inebriated to connect the dots. Beneath their hands blood drips on the tabletop in an unsteady rhythm, the soft plop of each drop and the clank of glass the only sounds in the house. Warmth pools in Palm's boot as her own blood flows out of sight.

Mito keeps glancing at the doorway, her expression too blank for Palm to figure out why.  
Mito’s grandmother is asleep, and Gon is out in the forest again. There’s no chance of anyone coming to check on them. They both know it.

With the big pieces out, Palm begins using her nails and Nen to pick out some of the smaller ones. Like this their hands touch more, and Palm isn’t surprised to find their skin catches against each other, both rough from years of work, but the places she finds the toughest skin is strange. There are ones in places she would expect from working at a fish market, cooking, hanging laundry, but there are ones from climbing and fishing, too. Palm brushes her fingers against them deliberately as she drops another small piece into the pile, looking up.

Mito is looking back.

_Thump._

Palm stands up. “T-the bathroom!” she yells, trying to shout over the noise her heart made. “I need to see how much is left. It’s too dark here.”

Mito nods and leads the way, steadier than Palm thought possible with all the alcohol in her system. Then again, Mito is a few steps shy of an alcoholic. She’s holding her drink really well or fauxing sobriety. Palm’s not sure how long she was picking glass out of Mito’s hand either. Time always seems to lose its steady flow when they drink together, speeding up and slowing down in unpredictable bursts. It could've been minutes. It could’ve been hours, enough for some of the alcohol to wear off. All Palm knows is it isn't dawn yet.

 _Glass in your hand is also a very effect way to become sober fast_ , Palm thinks a bit nostalgically.

The bathroom is harshly bright and firmly unromantic much to Palm’s relief. There's a strong smell of cleaner that kills any butterflies in any stomachs, and it's extremely easy to get distracted by the swirling pattern of the shower curtain. It's the last place any heart (especially a helpless romantic one) would think of any skipping or thumping.

Mito immediately heads for the sink, peering carefully at her hand. Palm looks as well, doing her best to ignore how much more washed out Mito’s skin looks in the light.

“I don't see anything,” Palm says finally.

Mito hums in agreement. She doesn’t stop staring at her hand. She barely moves. If it wasn’t for the slight rise of her breathing, Palm would think she was frozen.

“I’d still wash them out to be sure.” Palm turns on the water when Mito doesn’t move, struggling to adjust the temperamental faucet from a strong torrent to a gentle stream. She gets the front of her dress wet in return. “Warm then cold then warm.”

“Done this before?” Mito says. She finally moves, gingerly sticking her hands underneath.

Palm makes a noncommittal sound. Her experience more than speaking for itself, but...

“From fifteen to twenty, breaking windows was one of the only things that calmed me down,” she says, but it feels so disconnected from her now, another lifetime.

The sound of the sea outside clashes against the patter of the water in the sink. Palm leans on the wall and looks at her feet, feeling the blood in her scales. She tries to remember the last time her legs weren’t covered in boots. She tries not to watch Mito out of the corner of her eye. Then she tries to remember what her legs looked like without scales.

She fails on all accounts.

“I know.” Mito says suddenly, loudly. “I know he was in the hospital. He was hurt bad.” Her voice losses volume until she's whispering, a note of begging for understanding in her tone that suddenly makes it a confession, the bathroom suddenly way more intimate than Palm ever thought it could be. “Sometimes he looks at his arm like he can't believe it's there. Sometimes his arm spasms and he thinks I don't notice--”

Her voice breaks along with her sudden composure. Hunched over the sink, face shiny with sweat, eyes wide and clear with tears, Mito finally looks young. Human. Palm reaches forward and presses the woman, her friend, close to her chest, tucking Mito’s head under her chin, her black, tangled hair falling into a cover to hide them both from the outside world.

Palm discovers that Mito is a quiet crier, that she seeks physical contact as reassurance, that she is careful to only let the tears fall on her own clothes. She discovers Mito’s hair is soft, that she uses strawberry shampoo that barely manages to fight through the permanent smell of the sea in her hair let alone cover it, that her head makes a great pillow.

“...I know you're hiding some of the same secrets…”

Mito suddenly straightens and withdraws from the embrace, meeting Palm’s shocked eyes sternly. All the strength she usually carries is etched into her posture, but she keeps her face soft, just like she does in those rare moments of peace she looks across the sea.

“I know they're shared with Gon, and I know they're shared with Ging, too. I know there are some you need to keep to yourself,” her eyes flicker to the long gloves on Palm’s arms, the hat on her head, “but please tell me….” Mito releases a breath. It ghosts across Palm’s lips, and the sudden  _thump thump thumping_ of her heart almost drowns out Mito's words. “Tell me it's not because you think I’m untrustworthy.”

Palm shakes her head, takes a step back to clear her head, lets her tangled locks create a curtain between them to try and stop the overload of information. _How could I? You're so strong, so smart, so steady. I admire you. How could I? You’re so....Oh...I'm repeating myself..._

Palm feels a strong sense of deja vu, catches a whiff of coffee in the air before the stench of cleaner swallows it. If this were the old her, she could’ve said it all and more with no problem. Now there are scales. Now this place is important. Now she can’t screw up.

“...I respect you a lot, Mito,” she manages, cradling her gloved arms. There's no way Mito could understand the vast amount of words squished into that single sentence, but the smile Palm receives makes her feel like she said it all, her face heating, heating, and her heart pounding, pounding.

 _This isn't romantic at all_ , Palm thinks desperately. _Why?_

Her heart just keeps thumping in response.

Mito continues washing her hands without another word passing between them, but Palm notices her sneaking glimpses at her. She wonders if Mito can hear her heart and focuses all her attention on her breathing evenly.

Her heart won’t slow.

Palm lets out a soft chuckle, ignores Mito's questioning look. This is emotion filled to the brim,overflowing, uncontainable, uncontrollable, free, but now she hides it. She once never hid in her life before the ants, and now that is all she can do. Gloves and boots for scales and a hat for the pearl.

“I'm going to head to bed,” Mito says quietly, holding a hand to her head. “My head's pounding.”

Palm nods. “I’ll head to my room too then. Do you have sheets?”

Mito sighs and massages the bridge of her nose. “Ugh, I’m so sorry. I forgot. It...was a little crazy here this morning. There are some in my room.”

“Oh.” How can Mito not hear her heart now? Palm can barely hear her voice. “Okay.”

She feels like a small child as she follows behind, hands clasped tightly together in front of her and looking everywhere but Mito. She can feel the blood still leaking from the cuts on her leg. It gathers under her boots, sticking uncomfortably between her scales, and she wonders if Mito will find it strange if she goes to take a shower so soon after separating from her. Will she jump to conclusions? Palm hasn’t even had time to make her own.

Mito dives into her bed as soon as they get inside, not even bothering to turn on the light. She waves her hand towards the drawer. “Bottom one. There should be a set.”

There isn’t.

Mtio sighs, goes to push herself up, but Palm settles her back down. “It’s fine. I’ll just grab a blanket. The draft doesn’t bother me.”

“But…” Mito makes a face. Palm tries not to smile. She’ll never understand Mito’s determination to be a perfect host, but it’s fun to see her pout when she can’t quite figure out how to do it. “You could…” She looks away. “You could stay here…I have a blanket, and it’ll be warmer at least...”

Every romantic novel and movie, trashy and non-trashy, flies through Palm’s mind in a second. Sharing a bed is such a common cliche, but it was always one of Palm's favorites. Oh, she can already picture Mito rolling over in the middle of the night and throwing her arm over her, both of them waking up hours later to find themselves tangled in each other and silently gazing--

But the heroines in those stories don't have scales to worry about, so she carefully tucks Mito into bed and goes to grab a pillow to make a makeshift bed on the floor.

When she returns the blanket is already spread out on the floor close to Mito’s bed, Mito breathing peacefully. Still awake, but not for long. It will be easy to slip out in a few minutes.

Palm lays down on the blanket and curls it around her. It’s large and covers all of her easily. It’s hand-woven, several small holes poking through the woven yarn, but Mito was right. It’s extremely warm. Even so, Palm lets her arm stick out from the side to let the bottoms of Mito’s sheets brush against her glove, chill immediately running up her arm.

Love just happens...hadn't she said that to Killua once? But this didn't feel like she had with Gon. This wasn't a flare constantly burning her from the inside. It was closer to Knov, but that had been an infrequent creature. Now it’s constantly warm in her chest, only hot in intervals, bursting into flames rarely at the oddest time. This heat settles tactfully under her skin, never leaving, never burning but almost melting.

It’s easier than she expected to fall asleep listening to Mito’s breathing.


	5. Chapter 5

Palm is still asleep when Mito wakes up the next morning. One glance out the window shows the time to be later than Mito usually wakes up, the blue of the sky steady instead of fragile dawn blue, but the clock shows it’s still too early for most people to be awake.

She turns over and attempts to go back to sleep, but it’s too late; she’s awake for the day. With a frustrated sigh she slips out of bed to grab a book, the careful steps of a mother keeping her from disturbing Palm. Or Palm is simply too tired to react. Most people don’t operate as well as Mito can on consecutive nights of only four hours of sleep.

Mito also supposes Palm isn’t used to drinking several nights in a row either. For all the uneasy feelings Palm can give Mito, she sure is a light-weight. It’s kind of cute.

Palm wakes up when Mito attempts to get back into bed, the creaking springs ruining her hard work, and her eyes are vibrant, almost inhuman. She shifts, her hair falling back from her face, and Mito feels like air has been ripped from her lungs.

A giant gem sits in the middle of her forehead. It shines faintly in the morning light, the deep purple color becoming a million different shades that dance together in dizzying patterns. She could get lost staring at it. It should be out of place on a human, should make her pause longer than it does, but it suits Palm. It makes her look more like herself. It makes Mito’s hands itch to brush away the hair blocking it, to finally see Palm’s face in its entirety without all that hair in the way.

“Mito?”

“Yeah?” she whispers, scared to break the moment, to even imply of the world’s existence outside of her bedroom.

“I, uh…” Red spreads as Palm takes in the closeness of them, and Mito has to pinch herself to keep from giggling.

Then Palm's hand comes up to her face, brushes lightly at her unveiled gem, and she becomes even paler than Mito thought a living person could.

“My hat!” Palm hides her face and gropes blindly at the floor. “Where--”

Mito wordlessly hands it to her, keeping her eyes averted. Like that the moment is broken, turned ugly and intrusive. She stands to leave the room, to let Palm decide what to do, but pauses at the door.

“Your gem is beautiful,” she tells the hallway, and leaves.

Palm is almost out the door an hour later, hat firmly in place and eyes averted, but she tells the wind “I’ll be back,” and Mito feels like she’ll burst with how much her heart swells.

It’s the first time Palm as ever assured her of her return.

~*~

Dusk peeks shyly around the drapes, lighting up the faded wave pattern and the clothes on Palm's lap. The needle flashes in the sun as it moves in and out of the fabric, and the fast, rhythmic light is almost hypnotic when accompanied by the bright shine of the gem in her forehead.

Mito has things to do, but the night sinks heavily into her arms, weighing her down like a comfortable blanket might. She watches Palm and acknowledges her beauty in a way she can only allow when so close to sleep, warmth low in her stomach.

Without breaking the rhythm she established, Palm places the completed shirt to the side and grabs one from the small pile Mito had made for her in the month she was gone, as if preparing food for a pretty, but feral, stray cat. The clothes are just as likely to be shredded as they are repaired.

And yet there is something unmistakably permanent and right about Palm in the seat across from Mito while she's relaxed and waiting for the clothes to dry, the anticipation of a shared meal tonight and knowing Plam will make breakfast tomorrow even if Mito insists she not. It reminds her of the casual domestically of her parents, and the thought of spending her life like this isn't bad.

 _Damn_ , she thinks, _it's been years since I had a crush. It was before Gon… the other stray animal of the family._

And like that the mood is shattered, sunlight only showing all the dust dancing in the air, chores looming.

But Palm is untouched.

~*~

“Why don’t we just go in the forest?” Mito frowns at her own serious tone, swirling the beer in her glass as she thinks. It was supposed to be a joke, but the alcohol has given form to the idea in a way it never would have gained sober. “Yeah, why not?”

Palm blinks, lets the empty wine bottle she was spinning travel off along the table. “To find Gon?”

Mito snorts, loud and ugly. “As if we could find him,” she says, watching the bottle flirt dangerously with the edge of the table.”Besides, he’d probably get angry. He’s there because he doesn’t wanna see me, right? So let’s just...take a walk.”

“You know the forest?”

“I’ve lived here all my life.” Mito rolls her eyes. “I know enough. Let’s go.”

She stands, and her movement finally pushes the bottle to its doom. Her grab for it is halfhearted at best, and she only manages to knock against the side with her fingers, but Palm effortly snatches it from the air.

Palm stares at the bottle for a suspended moment. Then, with a carefulness that can only be deliberate, her grip loosens, and it finishes its descent to the floor.

Mtio watches it indifferently. She doesn’t even flinch at the sound of breaking glass, used to Palm’s sudden destructiveness. More often than not Palm’s actions feel like rolling a die, the results completely random and independent of the situation, but once Mito came to understand that, she stopped having most of her irritation towards Palm. Maybe it’s the loneliness, maybe it’s her crush, but as long as no one she cares about gets hurt by the dice roll, Mito doesn’t care what Palm does.

The moment they step outside, both barefoot in silent agreement, Mito fees like a teenager disobeying curfew, as if some illicit activity is about to take place. A sense of giddiness rises, and it’s all she can do not to giggle stupidly as she leads Palm passed the trees.

Even in the dark, all the paths come back to Mito, stretching endlessly in front of her. She picks one, then another, and yet another as destinations flow through her mind one after another, wanting to see it all. It’s been years since she saw the moon blossoms, even longer since she checked on the Mader berries, but dawn is in a few hours, and Palm is a hunter. What is unique to a hunter?

Her feet pick the path before she’s even made up her mind, carrying her the best route to grab all the things they need to make the final destination even better.

They walk nearly side-by-side between the dense trees, Palm a half-step behind to let Mito lead. The conversation is strange with no rhyme or reason connecting its topics. Not that it is surprising what with one conversationalist buzzed and the other Palm, but that’s not the root of it. In the darkness, their words are reduced to their purest form. There is no body language to dissect. There are no expressions to decipher. No stupidly pretty lips to distract her. No fidgeting hands to divert her train of thought. Just pure words and tone between them.

Yes, here in the dark, away from anything and everything, Mito can talk without the chores on her back or the empty place in the house screaming its presence at her. Here in the dark she is seven and following after Ging, fifteen and careless, twenty-three and gathering fruit, and somewhere between learning that Palm loves purple and red and hearing about the pet frogboar she had when she was nine, Mito doesn’t think it’s just a crush anymore.

Darkness has always reduced Mito to her simplest. Always has, always will. There’s a reason the wine comes out only at night. It becomes so easy to let their hands brush frequently, to let her voice take on a flirty undertone and imagine she hears Palm fluster in response.

“Here,” Mito says softly, stopping Palm with a tug on her gloved wrist. She can barely see the flowers in the darkness, but it’s so easy to imagine all the other colors around them, spread out in a perfect circle. “Pick an arm’s full. There are no thorns, so don’t worry.”

The petals are as soft as Mito remembers on her feet, and she picks one to rub against her face, sighing softly at the smell it leaves behind before getting to work. She’s careful to pick flowers far away from each other to make sure she leaves no holes in the circle. She picks and picks until she can barely hold them all, and yet Palm is still choosing when she turns to her. At least she thinks she is.

Mito moves closer. She can see Palm’s eyes searching carefully, glowing in the blackness like a cat, and she has no doubt the woman can see through the dark.

_Hunters._

Shifting from foot to foot, Mito considers the flowers in her hands. She picks the brightest one she can see, and waits for Palm to face her, the giddiness suddenly back full force. She waits and waits for those bright eyes to meet hers and reaches out in the dark for them. She feels Palm accept the action, the gentle shift to let Mito’s hand meet her cheek, and Mito feels warmth flush across her fingers.

With all the tenderness in the world, she tucks the flower behind Palm’s ear and hopes it’ll look nice in the moonlight.

“Almost there,” Mito whispers.

“Lead the way,” Palm whispers back.

There’s a halting pause, a breath of anticipation, before they’re moving again. Mito’s stomach flutters furiously.

Soon the darkness retreats. The trees ahead thin out, then give way altogether to a short square of land above the sea. Grass shifts softly, exposed to the elements. Mito shivers.

She waves to Palm to follow and crosses the short distance to the edge of the cliff, sitting down to let her legs hang over the side. The bare patch from all the days she spent there as a child is still there, though she stubbornly ignores how small it is compared to her now. Palm sits next to her so that there’s only a few short inches between them, heat radiating between them.

Light makes Mito weak, exposes all her flaws, but she still leans farther over the edge and lets a purple flower she picked gently drift off her fingers. It’s not the graceful fall she envisioned, but it serves its purpose. A black figure jumps out of the sea and swallows it whole.

“Pick one and toss it in,” Mito says.

“Which one?”

Mito shrugs, tossing her only red flower. “Any one is fine.”

Palm barely spares it a thought, tossing an orange and white one off.

“Now watch.”

A minute passes in darkness. Mito can see Palm swinging her legs over the edge in the faint moonlight, head turned to look across the sea, orange flower in her hair. Mito tosses a blue flower off the edge to double check the fish are still there. They are.

After another minute she fears her drunken mind was mistaken, that this wasn’t the right path, that she just wasted their time--

And then a purple spot slowly blooms into existence in the water below, taking on the shape of a fish. Then a red. Then an orange, white, swimming around each other, dancing in the black sea below, bright paint on pitchy canvas.

Palm laughs beside Mito. Flowers suddenly bloom in empty space, whole bundle in her arms thrown into the air. She can barely able to make out the wild joy in Palm’s face, a wild animal. A massive chorus of splashing begins below as the fish all jump at once, and more lights slowly come into existence below them. The more gluttonous fish become a mosaic of color that resembles Palm’s gem.

Mito stays seated as Palm gets up and moves. She’s off on a rant about something or other, completely checkout of the situation in her excitement, but Mito enjoys it. Her dress flutters around her, crazy hair swallowed by the night, a spirit, and Mito sure is drunk. When Palm takes of her gloves, she’s almost worried she’s hallucinating the shining scales on her arms until she notices Palm gauding her reaction. She just smiles and continues tossing flowers below.

The weight slowly diminishes in her hand, flower after flower tumbling into the abstract painting. Two remain when Palm finally collapses next to her. Well, not so much next to her as onto her. Half of her hair finds its way into Mito’s mouth.

“Thank you,” Palm whispers against her cheek, hand on top of hers, scales cold. That’ll take some consideration in the morning, but for now, she could care less.

Mito lets the last few flowers drift from her hand. “No problem,” she mutters, leaning closer.

And then there's no space at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love the picture in this chapter so much! It was done by overflowne, who you can check out here->  
> (http://overflowne.tumblr.com/post/145592449580/my-art-for-wordhunterings-fic-syncopation)


	6. Chapter 6

Of all the times Palm has come to Whale Island, there are a total of five times she has seen Gon run into the forest. Each time she ignored him, eager to go inside, but today she stalls. Today she follows, carefully to make sure the orange figure in the window can’t see her.

It’s not hard to tail Gon despite being unfamiliar with the area. Before it would have been nearly impossible with the amount of training he had, but Gon can’t even use any kind of Nen now. Palm doesn’t even bothering using Zetsu and just moves by way of the trees to hide herself.

From her higher vantage point, the way Gon’s right arm hangs limply at his side soon becomes obvious to her. The leaves rustle slightly as she jumps for a better view of his arm, but it looks unharmed. If anything, the way he runs is too smooth, the right amount of balance that allows him to keep up a fairly fast pace despite the dead weight, for it to be a recent wound.

“His arm spasms” is what Mito said. Spasms, not losses all functionality. The Ants were over half a year ago...how could Gon manage to keep it hidden for so long?

_Oh, Gon._

The trees suddenly give way, and Palm has to dig her nails into the bark to keep from launching herself into empty space, the branch trembling with the force of her stopped momentum.

They’ve arrived at a massive lake ringed with grass. It’s not exactly pretty, the water seemingly tinted with green, but the peacefulness of the wide area is undeniable. It reminds her of their date, and she wonders if those fireflies are around here, if Mito would like them.

Gon walks until he’s at the water’s edge and sits, clumsy with his deadweight arm. He turns to stare expectantly into the trees, and his eyes nearly met Palm’s.

She joins him.

“How long did you know I was there?”

“Almost the whole time,” Gon says, shrugging. He picks at the grass with his good arm. “You weren’t hiding your presence though, huh?”

Palm shakes her head. Her lips twitch upwards. “My mistake.”

This close to the water, Palm can see the clouds reflected imperfectly reflected. They drift quickly along the water’s surface and disappear in the blink of an eye. The tap of her boot on the surface distorts them into unrecognizable shapes.

Beside her, Gon blows on a blade of grass, the high whistle sounding loudly.

“I think Aunt Mito’s sad you left without telling her,” Gon says suddenly. He drops the grass into the water, and it is soon lost in the green abyss.

“I didn't mean to.” Palm makes a face. “I didn't even know I left. I wasn't aware of myself for three weeks.”

Gon picks up a rock, fiddles with it for a moment before throwing it across the lake. It skips once, twice, before disappearing with a soft plop. “Is it an Ant thing?”

Palm nods. “I think it's a survival instinct. If the King dies, find a new one. This is the first time I had no awareness of leaving, though.” She hands Gon a smooth rock. “I'm usually...still kind of there.”

“But I mean isn't the Ant part you, too?” He doesn't throw the rock this time, sets it beside him instead and looks for another. “Kite is still Kite, but he's also the Ant.” Gon frowns, forehead wrinkled with thought. “Like...peanut butter crackers? No, you can separate those...um…uh...”

Palm grins. “Flour and sugar?”

“Yeah! You're still flour but now you also have some sugar.” Gon nods, as if bestowing great wisdom. “You can't leave out one and make a good cake.”

Palm frowns. She rubs idly at her arms and feels the humidity trapped under her gloves. Has she ever attempted to travel for herself since the war? No, the urge had started so quickly and then evened out...

Come to think of it, it had begun staying away for weeks at a time after she came back from Whale Island for the first time. It can’t be just the island though. She’s been staying at Whale Island for the last few months with Mito. So it wasn’t until she and Mito…she and Mito...

Even now she can recall perfectly moving through the kitchen together to make meals, Mito letting their hands brush now. She can recall sitting in the chair together as she made clothes, Mito snoring beside her. She can recall how Mito’s hair felt so soft as she ran her hands loosely through it and the little gasp Mito made against her lips when Palm skimmed her nails across the back of her neck--

Her face! Oh, she can feel it flushing!

“Are you and Aunt Mito dating?”

“Wha--? I mean...I guess…” Now she’s on fire! She can’t even look at Gon right now! “I hope we still are.”

“Don’t worry, Palm! Mito can be stubborn, but I’m sure if you tell her she’ll understand.” Gon grins, and Palm feels her heart skip. “She cares about you. Don’t make her worry.”

“Then why do you keep hiding from Mito in here?”

Another rock skips across the surface with fierce splashes, falling a little farther away than the first attempt. “I don’t want her to worry.”

“That's hypocritical!”

Another stone is thrown. It almost immediately sinks. “It's okay for me!”

“No, it isn't!”

“Yes--”

“Gon.”

Gon looks away.

“That's the exact tone Mito uses.”

“...I know,” Palm says. She sighs.

“I can't tell her about… everything. She’s gonna want to know. She’s not going to be proud.”

“Hiding will only make it worse when she eventually finds out.” Palm picks up her own stone and stands, considering. “She already knows something is up with you. It’s better to tell her than let her imagination run wild.” She throws it, counts six splashes before all is still. “You can tell her after I try to explain. Not everything, just what you want to. It’ll give her some peace of mind.”

“...Okay Yeah, okay..” Gon jumps up, pats the grass of his pants. “Let’s go.”

~*~

Their first major fight starts like every great storm: with little warning or preparation before hand.

(‘So I’m kind of considered a mythical beast? But I started as a human.)

It’s a careless comment made by one met with another comment that was too biting, a small fire that caught a sudden gust of wind.

(“You didn’t trust me?”

…

“Not everything is because of you.”)

It becomes crashing plates and shattering wood and screams that crack in the middle from sheer force, a forest fire easily dwarfed by the rage both unleashed. A hurricane would have caused less damage. Gran and Gon take shelter away from it all, but it's impossible not to hear it, to avoid the flying debris and escape the damage.

The door snaps in half when Palm slams it on the way out, a final crack of thunder and lightening before the storm comes to its end.

The silence in the house is heavy, the weight of the words filling up the air, expanding, threatening the very idea of sound. None of the three people left in the house move, two waiting for the signal from one to decide how to proceed.

Finally there’s the soft clink of glass knocking together. There’s the sound of hinges creaking and the slamming of drawers that speaks of latent anger. There’s the should of sloshing liquid, of splashing, and then a quiet curse as more sloshing begins.

Mito thinks of the guest room that is always made a takes a shot. Another for the extra food it's become habit to buy. One more for all the kisses, and the rest of the shots are for every implied date, implied forever, implied “I love you”s that Mito couldn't say.

When Gon comes downstairs after two hours, Mito is barely awake on the floor. Her head is against her shoulder at an angle that will make moving tomorrow painful, and the number of bottles scattered around her is more than Gon’s ever seen. She wants to cry, wants to hug him and hum to him until he falls asleep, wants to erase the sound of anger and hurt from his mind

But everything is so detached from her body, and her son lifts Mito easily from the floor carries her upstairs. He’s grown too big for hugs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The amazing Gon was done by overflowne! Check it out here->  
> (http://overflowne.tumblr.com/post/145592449580/my-art-for-wordhunterings-fic-syncopation)


	7. Chapter 7

“Hi, Gon.”

“...Did I miss dinner?”

“I have leftovers for you in the fridge.” _Like always._

“Thank you, Aunt Mito.”

...

“This is good, Mito.”

“Thank you, Gon.”

…

_Why did you come back? You were gone for a day._

_Why did you leave after two weeks at home?_

“Gran is already in bed.”

“Okay.”

...

_Are you okay?_

_Are you happy?_

“Thank you,” she whispers, the words taking her by surprise. Gon’s head jerks up. Mito steels herself and stands up. “Thank you for helping me clean the bottles. Thank you for staying here. Thank you for coming home every night.” She stops in front of Gon. “Thank you.” She hugs him fiercely, and Gon’s expression cracks for the slightest instance.

“Are you going to call Palm?”

Mito rubs at her eyes. “I don’t know. Probably.”

“When?”

“ _I don’t know_ , Gon.” _Why is he asking now._

“Is it the Ant thing?”

“No, it’s not--” Mito stares at him. “What Ant thing?”

Gon looks up, uneasy. His eyes dart around as if looking for backup, or maybe an scapegoat. “The thing she told you about. The scales. The Ants.”

“No. She said she was a mythical beast, Gon. You know something.”

Eyes widening, Gon finally understands his blunder.

“It has to do with your arm? Your father--?”

“No! _I_ got hurt. I...I was fighting and...my arm...got hurt real bad. Killua--” He takes a moment to gather himself. “He helped me.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Mito demands. The hurt comes out as anger, as betrayal. “You should have told me.”

Gon fights to keep him voice controlled, feels that anger and tries not to choke on it. “ _I_ should have told _you_? Why?”

“I’m your mother.”

“Well if I’m your son,” Gon spits out, control wavering, “then why didn’t you ever tell me about Ging?”

Mito meets his eyes, unmovable, unconcerned with the sudden turn of conversation. “Because I love you.”

“Love isn’t a justification!” Gon is screaming. His fist is balled, the other hanging uselessly beside him. She can't stop staring at it. His voice cracKs. “You can't...You can’t just...just not say anything! How am I supposed to understand if you don’t tell me!”

“You have to ask me if you’re not sure, Gon!”

_“How am I supposed to know if you lie to me!?”_

Mito reaches out her hand when she sees the tears start down her son’s cheeks, but she’s batted away. He retreats several steps, scrubbing angrily at his eyes. “I don’t get it,” he sniffs. “I’m not a good friend...or a good son...why? How? I don’t...know...I don’t understand...”

It’s like watching a dam burst and cave in on itself, the flow of tears ebbing and flowing with each new break, torn apart by the force behind it. A bystander, Mito can only watch him crumble, unsure what to do, unsure what needs to be done, helpless against the force.

 _How long?_ Mito thinks desperately. _How long have I not noticed?_

His departure flashes across her eyes, his bright smile as he tells her brightly “You can’t meet my eyes when you lie to me.” What eleven year-old knows what their parent looks like when they lie?

“It's not you,” she says “I’m not a good mother.”

“Yes, you are!”

Mito recoils, the argument sharp on her tongue, but she checks herself, redirects it. “Well, you’re a good son!”

“No, I’m not!”

“Yes, you are!”

“No--”

“If I’m a good mom,” Mito starts hotly, “then I think I know what a good son looks like. You’re a good son.” Her face softens, and she steps forward to grab his hand, interlocking their pinkies like she showed him all those years ago. “I’ll swallow a thousand needles if I’m lying.” She softly presses a kiss onto the top of his head. “Sealed with a kiss.”

And that's all it takes for her teenage son to revert to a toddler, grabbing her shirt and crying as if he just skinned his knee for the first time, desperate for the pain to stop. She hold him and tries to chase it away, this cut she can't see or fix, she helped make with her own hands.

“It’ll be okay,” she wants to say. It sits on the tip of her tongue, ready however many times she needs, but she’s never known if it will be okay. Now Gon doesn’t know either.

“We’ll get through this,” she says. “We’ll get through this,” she says, rocking her son back and forth. “We’ll get through this,” she says, and hugs him close.

And Gon tells her some things. Not all of it. Not the things that fill his eyes with shame or get stuck in his throat. Nothing about Killua, or Palm, or his arm, but it’s something. And Mito whispers how proud she is, how much she loves him, how he’s safe and alive and can tell her in time even as she burns to know everything. She swallows it back for tonight and pretends to be a good mother until she can figure out how to become a real one.

~*~

Picking up the phone is easy. Dialing Palm’s number is hard.

“I miss you,” is the first thing out of her mouth.

“I love you,” responds Palm.

…

“I don’t care about the beast thing,” Mito says.

“I know.”

…

“I trust you,” Palm says.

“I know.”

...

“You can travel,” Mito says, and wants to cry.

“I can stay,” Palm says, and wants to mean it.

“I love you,” says Mito.

“I miss you,” says Palm.

“I’ll be back tomorrow.”

~*~

Palm comes back to herself in the middle of a crowd in a massive city, freezing dead in her tracks to gather herself. The crowd hastily parts around her, parting like a river around a rock, and it is all too eager to let her eject herself out of the middle into an alleyway.

Carefully, Palm sits against the brick wall of the alley. The brick is warm on her back from the sun. Her bag feels like a ton of bricks as she lifts it. The loud thud it makes when she sets it beside her doesn’t exactly reassure her that it doesn’t actually hold more than a few bricks.

What it does have is several blimp tickets, her wallet, her phone, several knives, some loose bills, multiple changes of clothes, boxed lunches, her phone, and the address of the Freeces’ home. Her phone is charged and has three messages.

One is from Gon. It is a messy picture of him and Mito in a tree, Gon laughing down at Mito from his higher branch. The other two are from Mito.

 _I got a phone!_ says the first. Palm chuckles at the image of Mito carefully typing the message out, backspacing furiously when she misspells a word.

The second says   _We’ll be here when you come back._

Palm pulls out the rice and jerky, and settles down to eat. The noise around her is strong, a combination of thousands of voices at the height of day. Music plays from a nearby shop, reporting people Palm doesn’t know and places she doesn’t remember being. She takes a bite of her food and types quickly on her phone.

_Maybe next time you can come with me_

 

_ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading!
> 
> The final wonderful illustration was done by nomyriad. Check it out here->  
> (http://nomyriad.tumblr.com/post/146102244345/im-late-omg-but-heres-my-art-for-hxhbb-this)


End file.
